


Burying an Angel

by KweenRatMother



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Background Saileen, Despair, Don't Read This, Emotional Hurt, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Grief/Mourning, Grieving Dean Winchester, Heartbreak, Hurt No Comfort, I apologize in advance, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Men Crying, Misery, No Happiness Allowed, Ouch, Pain, Sad Ending, Sexual Content, Suicide, Texting, Tragic Romance, Why Did I Write This?, You Have Been Warned, i dunno where jack is he just didn't make it into this fic ok, there isnt much though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:15:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27505939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KweenRatMother/pseuds/KweenRatMother
Summary: "Dean."Sam's voice jolts Dean back to awareness. Dean shakes his head vigorously. He crosses his arms tighter; it's more like he's just hugging himself now. He knows what Sam is about to say."Dean. I think it's time."No.It can't be time.It can't.Dean just keeps shaking his head, looking anywhere but at Sam, and his heart is pounding relentlessly and it hurts. It hurts in every way possible. He leans one hand on the door, ignoring the way his stomach binds itself up, the way his chest tightens, and he tries not to start fucking crying. He's lost.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 13
Kudos: 51





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sad fic with no happy ending! Mind the tags! i don't know why i did this to us either. but if you wanna get ur heart broken, you came to the right place.

Dean stares at the panic room door, still pacing, while Sam has long since settled on the floor. His eyes are emotionless, but inside he's anything but. It's only a few times that he's seen the inside of this door. And never has he been in here this long. The ceiling vent drones on with its consistent rhythm, the same one Dean's been listening to for hours. The room is dimly lit, and it smells cold and metallic. Alien. The scent of a room designed with the hopes that nobody will ever have to use it.

Dean's not worried about survival. They've got enough food and water in here to last for weeks. No, he's worried about the reason they're here. The reason he had never imagined in his wildest dreams. 

But the more he thinks about it, he knows the signs were there. He just hadn't wanted to see them. He doesn't want this reality. It's  _ wrong.  _ It wasn't supposed to be like this. 

"Dean." 

Sam's voice jolts Dean back to awareness. Dean shakes his head vigorously. He crosses his arms tighter; it's more like he's just hugging himself now. He knows what Sam is about to say.

"Dean. I think it's time."

_ No.  _

_ It can't be time.  _

_ It can't.  _

Dean just keeps shaking his head, looking anywhere but at Sam, and his heart is pounding relentlessly and it hurts. It hurts in every way possible. He leans one hand on the door, ignoring the way his stomach binds itself up, the way his chest tightens, and he tries not to start fucking crying. He's lost. 

"I know this is difficult," Sam says, soft yet distinctly urgent, " _ beyond _ difficult. But it's going too far. We don't have a choice."

"Yeah we do!" Dean hadn't planned to shout. It just came out like that. The words scraped his throat like sandpaper, leaving it raw and aching.

"What then?" Sam asks, and Dean can tell he's really trying to be patient. Dean can tell that Sam knows he's got nothing, by the way his shoulders stay slumped and his eyebrows don't even go up. Dean turns away, feeling an irrational fury at his brother's failure to at least pretend he had faith. 

"Oh, shit, I dunno," Dean shoots back, "maybe  _ not  _ shoving the guy I happen to  _ love _ into a _ fucking casket?! Forever?! _ " 

Sam runs a hand through his hair and sighs. It's not a frustrated sigh, no, he stopped doing those after the first few times they had this argument. It's a sad sigh, because they both know Dean will fight tooth and nail to keep from doing this. And they both know that in the end, he won't win.

So Sam says what he always says next, except there's a difference in the level of conviction this time. It's higher. "Dean, that's not your Cas anymore."

"Yes he is!" Dean yells, finally whirling around to fix his eyes on Sam. "He  _ is _ my Cas, he will  _ always  _ be my Cas!"

"Soon he won't be! Dean, we're  _ hiding _ from him—"

"He's just having a bad couple of days, it  _ happens _ with–with the Mark, you just have worse days sometimes." Dean is fighting a losing battle, a fish flailing wildly on land, but he can't bring himself to concede. For fuck's sake, it's Castiel. "He's—he's just—he'll come out of it, he always does! He has way more good days than bad."

"Dean," Sam tries again, gentler. "That's why we have to do it now. While he's still sane most of the time. When he's not, he's _ dangerous.  _ You know this."

Dean shuts his eyes, but even he can't erase the mental image of his angel's eyes—fiery, merciless. Devoid of anything recognizable. 

The last time he saw those blue eyes so damn cold, it was years ago, on that night in Lucifer's crypt when Cas, under mind control, had beaten him half to death. The first time Dean had said  _ I love you.  _ Except that time, it had worked. Those sacred words he'd been so afraid to say before then, had brought Castiel back to him. They had pushed the storm away and let the sun through and changed everything. 

Dean still vividly remembers every following moment like it was yesterday. 

The sharp metallic clatter as the blade slipped from Castiel's hand. It hadn't registered with Dean at the time, not through the ringing in his ears and his own ragged, sodden breaths.

He remembers the shape of Castiel standing over him, muddy through the swelling and the blood caught in his eyelashes. 

The hand that reached towards him. 

The stiff fabric dampening beneath his fingertips as he weakly clutched Cas' sleeve, begging, flinching at the angel's touch. Thinking  _ this is it. This is when I die. Guess it could be worse. _

Then the tender brush of fingertips, the warmth. The soft light of Grace taking all the pain away, illuminating the drifting dust that Dean's dazed eyes focused on as they fluttered open. 

Then the trembling hands on him, as Cas dropped to his knees and held Dean like it was the last time he ever would.

Then the kiss. Tearful and desperate. 

Dean had frozen for a second, heart caught in his throat, but then he'd melted, finally allowing himself to have it. That first kiss had turned into many, punctuated over and over by Castiel's murmured apologies. Dean remembers the taste of salt on his lips. He remembers the way that Cas had gently stroked his hair, cradled his face in both hands, cried for him. He remembers everything.

"Dean." Sam drags him violently out of his thoughts.

"No. Don't," Dean whispers. "Please, Sam."

"He'll listen to you."

"Don't. Don't you make me do this." Dean's voice falters painfully, and there are tears in his eyes now. He's gonna fucking break down. 

Sam is quiet for a few minutes. Then he stands up from the floor and approaches Dean, laying a hand on his shoulder. He starts to say something, but Dean stops him, lurching away.

"I can't," he half-sobs. "I can't. I can't." 

"Can't or won't?" Sam says, but it's just a reflex, and Dean knows that. If this were any other situation, Dean would've held back his venom as soon as he saw the utter guilt appear on his brother's face. He would've let reason snuff out his anger, knowing Sam meant no harm. But his anger takes the wheel this time.

"How about _ both,  _ you fucking  _ dick? _ " He yells. His voice echoes and it feels good to hear it echo. "Do you have any idea how fucking horrifying this is? It makes me sick just  _ thinking _ about it! I have nightmares about it and I haven't even done it yet! I  _ hate  _ that this is our last choice—I hate  _ myself _ for not coming up with a better one! Dammit, I would give my soul right this fucking second if it would make this go away!" That's when his rage, the fucking traitor, just suddenly _ leaves.  _ Abandons him to be surrounded by grief and fear. No warning, just  _ gone.  _ Now he's close to tears again. "God, Sam, I just want it to go away."

"Dean I'm so sorry," Sam says, and to his credit he looks like he could totally cry too. But he still doesn't understand. He doesn't fucking _ understand. _

"Just lemme talk to him—please just give me a few minutes to talk to him Sammy, please," Dean is begging, frantic now. The gravity of the situation is trying to shrink itself in Dean's mind but it's not working. It only seems to be getting larger, creating a pressure that feels like it could actually split his fucking skull. In a fleeting thought he really wishes it would.

Sam looks like he wants to be firm, but he gives in. Because he's always been the nice one. He's the only one of them who deserves to have found love.

_ Not me, _ Dean thinks.  _ I'm fucking cursed. I don't get to fall in love without fucking it all up eventually. _

"Okay," Sam says. "But at least text him first? Just to make sure he's...lucid."

Dean doesn't. He doesn't need to. He's  _ not _ afraid of Cas. He's only in here because Sam insisted on it, that's  _ all.  _ So instead he just opens all the deadbolts in silence, throws the door wide open, and leaves, slamming it behind him.

The bunker is deathly quiet. Dean scans the hallway and, finding nothing, he makes his way to the staircase and slowly climbs out of the sublevel. His footsteps echo way too loudly, and he ignores how his heartbeat is picking up, how he's hypervigilant of the slightest sound. 

_ I won't be afraid. _

_ He's still my Castiel. _

_ He has to be. _

_ That is never going to change. _

"Cas?" Dean calls softly as he peers into the war room. At the same moment, though, he gets his answer. There's a figure in the stairwell, sitting on the stairs halfway up. Dean hears a sharp inhale, sees a startled movement. And then Dean can see the harsh light fall on his angel's face, drawn and haggard, but still as beautiful as it's always been. 

Dean immediately goes to him like a leashed puppy, but Cas gets to his feet and starts to back away.

Dean barely pauses before he keeps going, charging up to meet Cas and throwing both arms around him in a crushing embrace. 

He closes his eyes, and for a second, just a second, in the safe haven of the darkness between his forehead and Castiel's chest, lungs filled with this familiar scent, Dean is okay. 

Just for a second, everything is okay. 

Then the second is over. 

Cas pulls back, but he's still holding Dean with an almost desperate grip. 

And when Dean sees his eyes, his throat closes up. 

"Dean."

"No," Dean says. "No, no, no, don't you dare. Don't say it, I  _ know _ what you're gonna say, don't fucking say it, I can't, I  _ won't  _ do it!" 

Cas reaches one hand up to cradle Dean's face. Dean can feel him trembling. 

"Dean, it's time to say goodbye," Cas whispers, painfully soft. "We tried. We did the best that we could. But we can't stop the Mark, and it's only getting stronger. I can feel it. One day it will take me, and it won't let me go."

_ No. Not him too. I'm outnumbered now. _

The world is crumbling down around Dean. Panic is rushing through his veins so rapidly it makes him twitch, his ears are ringing, he can hardly breathe, he  _ has _ to do something. He has to stop this madness.

"Cas, c'mon, please," Dean begs. "This isn't how we do things, we don't just  _ give up on people! _ Just give me a little more time, let me find another way—"

"Dean,  _ this is the only _ —"

"No!  _ No,  _ it can't be, there's gotta be something! Please, baby, I can't do this. I can't put you in that box." 

Dean had begun to cry at some point, he's not even sure when, but suddenly that's all he can do. He drops his head and sobs into Cas' shoulder as this horrific reality hits him in waves. 

It doesn't make a difference anymore what he says or does. He's going to lose Castiel. And he's powerless to prevent it. 

He's going to condemn Castiel to a fate dozens of times worse than death.

This is a fucking nightmare.

Cas tries to comfort Dean, holds him close and strokes his hair and whispers apologies, just like that night so long ago. But Dean is inconsolable.

"I can't do this to you," he cries in despair. "I can't, I love you, I don't wanna say goodbye!"

"And I love you, Dean," Cas murmurs. "That is why I must be contained. If I stay, I will hurt you."

Dean looks at Cas, swiping his tears away with the back of his hand. "Hurt me then," he says, suddenly possessed by an unstable live wire of insane hope. _"Anything_ but this. As long as I have you here with me, it doesn't matter what you do, I _need_ you. Go ahead and fuck me up, Cas, I don't care, I can handle it!" He's getting breathless but he doesn't stop talking. "It could work, we could _make_ it work! Just stay here and whenever you...whenever the Mark does its thing—when it makes you feed it—just take it out on _me,_ okay? You can heal me. I won't die."

"Oh, Dean…" Cas replies, so quiet. He lifts Dean's chin up and kisses him, gentle and slow. "Dean, that wouldn't be love. It wouldn't be right," he whispers into the sliver of space between them, breath ghosting over Dean's lips. "You know better than anyone else that eventually I'd kill you. And then the world. I can't let the last thing you feel be terror. I won't let you die by my hand."

Dean draws an uneven breath, then lets it out. He knows Cas is right. The wild-eyed excitement deflates from him as soon as it had materialized, leaving a great empty chasm of defeat in its place. He takes Castiel's hand in both of his own and presses it against his chest, as if he might save Cas, keep him here, if he can just hang on and never let go. 

"What am I supposed to do without you?" Dean asks, and his voice has gotten too small, crushed by the resignation that's setting in so fucking fast.

He hates how sappy he's already getting about this, when nothing has actually happened yet, but goddammit, Cas is the only person he's ever gotten comfortable being this sappy with. And now he's expected to just throw Cas away like he means nothing? It's not fucking fair.  _ It shouldn't be this way. _

"You have to let me go, my love," Castiel replies, his own voice starting to falter. "I am so sorry, so much more than language can express. I never thought we would lose each other. Not like this." He's dropped to a whisper by the last few words, and Dean can see tears in his eyes now. 

_ Fuck. We're both falling apart. _

_ Who's gonna put us back together now? _

_ Someone please help us.  _

_ Someone please wake us up from this, this… terrible. Fucking. Nightmare. _

Dean is realizing with a sinking feeling, that this is it. That whenever it was that he was last happy, he should've appreciated it more, cherished it when he had the chance. Because life has finally chained him to the train tracks, and this time, he won't get free. He feels like a helpless child, unable to do anything except cry and hope somebody notices and comes to help him. 

From this point on, Dean's not going to be happy again.

  
  


*

  
  


One of the downsides of being in a relationship as a hunter is that you never really do all the things regular couples do. But Dean had always assumed they'd get to that stuff, that they had time, and after everything was said and done they could retire and have at least something like a normal life. Now suddenly, the time is all gone, the rest of his life with Cas that he thought he had, just  _ smothered. _ So that night, struck by a nearly manic impulse, Dean makes a bucket list. It feels good to have something physical, to have a plan that he can hold and refer to and check things off. It feels good to pretend he has any sort of control in this cruel new reality.

They've never had one of those fancy dates, like in the movies. Those dates at a restaurant with candles and paper thin wine glasses where they don't show you what anything costs on the menu, because it's all crazy expensive. Some place where there's fabric napkins and all the plates look the same, where all the waitstaff are either twinks or gorgeous older women and they write your order with a fountain pen.

You always gotta make reservations for those places. So Dean does that. He finds a place so damn ritzy they won't even let you reserve online. He has to call.

Dean is alone and his voice trembles when he speaks. And then it breaks, because he's so fucking upset and this should be a good thing, this call, but it isn't. The lady on the other end keeps asking if he's okay; she sounds gentle, good natured, like maybe she actually genuinely hopes he's okay, but that only makes him crumble faster.

Dean doesn't know why, but he tells her. He tells her he's about to lose someone he loves. He lets her assume that it's something like a terminal illness, something he would give anything to trade for Castiel's actual fate. If only it was a terminal illness. If only it was something so peaceful. 

Dean  _ almost _ no-shows for that reservation, because he's afraid she'll be there, and recognize the voice of the crazy guy who cried over the phone. 

They go to the Grand Canyon, because Dean has been there a few times mid-road trip, but Cas hasn't. At least, he hasn't experienced it as a human would. It's a cloudless day when they get there, and they separate from the milling tourists and find a secluded spot to sit right at the edge. 

It's an amazing view. The canyon is carved out endlessly in both directions, birds darting back and forth across it, the blue sky painting a contrast that's almost alien in its brilliance. There are layers upon layers of stone, each a subtly different shade, each entombing so many memories of ancient times that found their resting place here. It's breathtaking, really. But Dean's eyes are only for Castiel. 

The way the red earth reflects onto his skin, casting him in a warm, deep golden glow. The way those gorgeous blue eyes mirror the sky. Shadows of battle-worn feathers creeping over the rocks as Cas stretches his wings out behind them. Dean is committing it all to memory, making sure he never forgets anything about his perfect, beautiful, doomed angel. 

They're on vacation. At a place that's on almost everybody's bucket list. But Dean still feels so fucking hopeless. Eventually, he slowly shuffles back from the edge, because he's having too many fleeting compulsions to fall off of it. Cas speaks softly into the wind, telling Dean stories of how this land looked before the canyon was formed, and the terrifying beauty of the river that had been its sculptor. Dean quietly listens, tracing the lines of Castiel's palm with his fingertips.

As the day winds down, they stay out to watch the stars appear, but even that feels like a funeral. By the time it's fully dark, Dean is curled up on the rocky ground, head resting on Castiel's lap, clothing smudged with red dust. Crying. Again. He's so sick of crying.

Dean braves an airplane so they can visit Paris. But he finds that he is so consumed with Cas and the _thing_ that has to be done and how he's going to lose Cas—god, he's going to _lose_ Cas—that there's no room in his mind for his usual fears. During the drive to the airport, he'd chewed his nails down to nothing in anticipation of a panic that just…never shows up. It's kinda nice, though, because he can still have a breakdown and everyone just assumes he's the guy he was before, the guy with the flight phobia, and everyone is kind to him, and a man across the aisle shares stories of how scared he used to be. 

Dean can pretend they're all supporting him for the real reason he's falling apart.

_ I have to bury my angel. _

"It should be somewhere far, somewhere nondescript that would be hard to find again," Castiel says, as they cuddle on their huge, too-soft bed at a Paris hotel. He sounds so tragically resigned.

"Really? You sure about that, because I don't trust me to forget where I—" Dean begins, but his heart clenches up before he can get the word out. "Where I...where you'll... you'll _ be, _ " is the best he can do.

_ Where you'll be buried. _

_ Please let me wake up from this, please let it all be a bad dream. _

"I can't do this, Castiel," Dean whispers a moment later, eyes fixed on the ornate lampshade on the ceiling above them. Not really seeing it, just needing something to focus on. "I'm telling you, I really can't."

"I'm scared," Cas admits. "I hate it too. I do. I'm going to miss you so dearly. I feel as though I've already begun mourning."

"Yeah," Dean sighs. "So do I."

It takes an afternoon of meticulous work to scratch their names into the padlock. Dean wanted it to be perfect, but without having to hear the ear splitting noise of a knife against metal. 

"It's beautiful," Cas says, a smile tugging at his lips as he turns the padlock over in his hands. "What is it for?"

"We're going to the love locks bridge," Dean explains. "I'd butcher the name if I tried to say it, but it's real famous. People put these on the railings and throw away the key. It's a human thing, and it's—well, it's  _ dumb,  _ but we're gonna do it anyway." He concentrates on his Google maps search in order to keep himself from getting emotional. And then Cas just  _ has _ to undo his efforts.

"It isn't dumb if it means something to you," he softly says.

Dean doesn't respond. He keeps his eyes on his phone and takes several deep breaths as quietly as he can. He doesn't want Cas to know he's on the brink of another breakdown. When he can no longer feel the lump in his throat—not gone, just crushed to the side for now—he coughs a couple of times and stiffly, neutrally reads off the directions to where they're headed. Dean hopes he sounds okay, because he doesn't feel okay. He's unraveling.

He's unraveling as he steers the rental car—an ugly, modern silver thing—down the road and rolls to a halt at a stop light. The engine doesn't even purr. It's too quiet. Dean's unraveling because he stole a glance at Castiel in the seat beside him, and he saw how wet those blue eyes were. Maybe he's unraveling because Cas still tries to give him a smile through those barely restrained tears. 

It's long past midnight when they arrive, but Dean can tell something is wrong even in the dramatic illumination of the streetlamps. Something is different. He blinks at the bridge, anxiously chewing on his pinky nail. 

The locks aren't there. Or at least, he can't see the bizarre texture of them that he's always seen in pictures. The railings are encased with glass panels now, making it impossible for any more locks to be attached. Dean's heart sinks. He glances over at Cas, who is already studying his phone with a furrowed brow. 

"All the locks were weighing the bridge down," he reads, the dejection in his voice painfully apparent. "It is no longer legal to attach any more."

Of course.

All of the excitement that Dean had felt for being able to do this one stupid thing wilts instantly. He visibly sags into his seat with a long sigh.

"So much for that shit," he grumbles, trying his best to hold onto the annoyance he feels, so that he won't have to face the sadness and disappointment. 

For a few long, long minutes, they sit in silence. Then Cas suddenly perks up.

"I have an idea," he says simply, and grabs Dean's hand.

Even after having done it so many times over the years, getting zapped to another location still feels incredibly strange. The only good thing that came from the Mark of Cain was that Cas went back to full power. With a rustle of feathers, Dean finds himself sitting on the edge of something large and concrete, looking out over the water, with Cas by his side. As he gets his bearings, and notices the multitude of steel beams and poles and latticework behind and above him, it dawns on him. 

"Are we...  _ underneath _ the bridge?"

Castiel nods with a faint smile. "Nobody will find us here."

Dean carefully gets to his feet, optimism lighting back up. His fingers close around the padlock in his coat pocket and he pulls it out, holding on tight because his heart jolts at the notion of accidentally dropping it. As if reading his mind, Cas blocks the edge with his body, clasping Dean's hands in his own. Together, they reach up and hook the padlock over the steel bar above them, hesitant as Cas pauses a few times to make sure he's doing this right. 

For a moment, Dean just gazes at Cas, watching the night reflect from his angel's eyes, and then he whispers, "okay, now we just lock it." 

Dean closes his eyes as they seal the padlock to its new home, and the click sounds so loud, so final, so fucking heartbreaking, it might as well be a flatline. His free hand goes to his other pocket, retrieving the key. The gentle waves are lapping lazily against their confines below. A car alarm goes off somewhere far away. 

Dean reaches his arm out, past the ledge, over the water. His lip is trembling and he bites it to keep it steady. His eyes are stinging and he knows tears are going to fall no matter what he does.

Dean looks at Cas. Cas nods, puts an arm around him. No, both arms.

Dean takes a breath, holds it. 

And he lets the key fall.

It doesn't make a splash. It just enters the water as gracefully as it had fallen. Dean can only see it for a second before it disappears, drifting down into the dark water to join the countless others. He doesn't stop watching until every ripple from its impact has calmed and vanished.

*

After a couple more attempts at the iconic experiences Dean had been so fixated on having with Castiel, they gave up. It was mutual, unspoken. Because every stop on their farewell tour seemed to end in sorrow, and they both know it won't get better. Instead, they choose to spend their last few days at home. Cuddling up to watch movies in Dean's TV cave, the chairs pushed aside, a pile of blankets and pillows on the floor instead. Lying on the grass in a sunny patch of the woods, just watching the bugs and birds fly back and forth. Cooking together. Going for long drives to nowhere in particular, singing along to whatever's in the tape deck. It's still bittersweet, but it feels right. 

There's sex too, of course. Lots of it. Just not the type of sex Dean had expected it would be in their last days together. It's the type that's better described as lovemaking. It's slow and soft and fucking  _ tragic. _ For every sigh and shudder that Castiel's gentle hands bring out of him, Dean finds tears slipping down his face in equal measure. It's only on their final day that things change. 

"I want it back," Dean pants that night as Castiel's hand falls on the shoulder where his handprint once was. "Th–the scar—I want it back."

Above him, Cas pauses, worry beginning to write itself on his sweat-slick features. But Dean is sure about this. 

"Please, Cas," he whines, "don't leave me with nothing."

"It will be very painful," Cas warns him.

"It better be," Dean immediately says. "I want to feel it. I want to feel it for weeks after... After you're gone." His voice breaks on the last word. 

_ Gone. _

Cas bends down and presses his lips to Dean's neck. "As you wish," he murmurs as Dean turns to offer more of his throat. 

Slipping one arm around him, Cas lifts Dean up into his lap and holds him so their bodies are flush against each other, damp and warm. Cas fucks him for a few more blissful moments before the hand still gripping Dean's shoulder starts to heat. But it doesn't burn just yet. Cas waits, waits until Dean is nearly consumed with pleasure, brings him all the way to the precipice of release, before he does it. All Dean can do is shudder and beg and whimper Castiel's name when his angel finally whispers in his ear. 

"Close your eyes, Dean."

Dean obeys, and he hears the sizzling a heartbeat before he feels it.

The pain is sharp and searing, lightning forking through his entire arm, and at first Dean gasps and instinctively tries to twist away. But he manages to suppress his reflexes, clinging to Cas to keep himself in place. It's at the same time that Dean forgets himself and he blinks in shock. He catches a glimpse of blinding golden light before Castiel's free hand moves up to cover his eyes again. Dean can see it getting brighter by the brilliant red glowing through his closed eyelids, as the burning grows even more intense. It's excruciating. Dean thinks he might actually be on fire. But he bears it all the same, crying out in a visceral blend of pain and pleasure as the light finally fades out. Tears streaming down his cheeks, he collapses forward, shuddering, and Cas gently lays him back down as he rides out the aftershocks. Cas slows to a stop, presses a palm to Dean's face, and tenderly strokes his cheekbone, whispering praises and sweet things. Dean knows he's being considerate, assuming that sex is pretty much over after you burn the guy you're fucking, but…no, Dean doesn't want consideration right now.

Even so, all he can manage is a scratchy whisper. "Cas please don't stop."

Cas only hesitates for a breath before he obeys and picks the pace back up, fucking Dean with abandon until the lights flicker and the bed creaks in protest. 

Dean trembles, panting, arching off the bed when he feels Castiel's hips start to stutter. Moments later he moans softly as Castiel spills inside him, savors it because this is the last time he will ever feel this.

  
  


*

  
  


Dean decides to bury Castiel in Pontiac, Illinois, right beside the same long-abandoned barn where they first met. He convinces Sam to hack into some rich bastard's offshore bank account, and he purchases the tiny patch of land so that nobody can ever tear the barn down. 

It's late afternoon on a sunny day when they arrive. The drive had been quiet, and Dean didn't let go of Castiel's hand the entire way. He's numb. None of it feels real. But they're getting out of the car, and they're opening up the trailer, and the box is right there, huge and dreadful.

_ It's not real. _

_ It's not real. _

_ It's not real. _

The world spins. 

_ It can't be real. _

They unload the box. 

It's real.

Dean doesn't feel good. 

They're digging now, digging for so long. His shoulder aches where Cas branded him with that sacred handprint. He loves the pain. He's dizzy.

Maybe it's just the heat. Maybe he should drink water or something.

But it's not even that hot.

Dean watches himself dig, and it looks so deep, so dark, so lonely down in this hole. He watches his hands and they look...really far away, like they're getting smaller, sucked into this black hole. They're leaving him, shrinking away down into the darkness. Maybe just to see what it's like down there, maybe they'll be back in a little while. 

Dean's ears are ringing. His mind drifts, stretches, empties. He thinks he might be falling.

The next thing Dean knows, he's on his knees, head swimming, and Cas is beside him, holding him and talking to him in a worried voice. Dean can't concentrate on any of it. He just clings to Cas and trembles.

"I can't do this," he whispers breathlessly. "I can't. We can't."

"We have to," Cas replies, but Dean can hear the fear in his voice like a distant scream. And God, how he wants to just make it go away.

The grave goes down a little deeper than Dean is tall. It feels strangely safe down there with Cas, once it's deep enough that you could sit down and only see the sky. They actually get to chatting a few times, and Dean pretends they're digging up a body in order to hold himself together. Anything's possible if you pretend really, really fucking hard. 

It works until they're actually lowering the box into its resting place. Castiel's resting place, where he won't rest. That's when Dean goes quiet again. 

They watch the sun go down together, cloudless and fiery. They've said most of their goodbyes. There's only one step left to this nightmare.

Cas is being strong. He's come to terms with it. But Dean has never been good at resignation. The second to last time he'll ever climb out of this grave, he goes back into the Impala, and comes out with a plastic bag. The last time he will ever climb into this grave, he's smiling for the first time in days. Because he has a plan. 

Dean upends the bag and a mess of portable phone charging batteries tumbles into the coffin. It takes Cas a second to catch on. Then he pulls his phone from his pocket with a bittersweet grin. 

"We'll be able to text each other for a while," Dean explains, and Cas just hugs him for a long moment.

They agreed not to draw this out, to preserve both of their sanity. But when Cas starts to get into the coffin, Dean is dying to stop him. Or maybe just jump in with him. Cas puts a hand on Dean's chest, though, because Cas knows him too well, and he gently holds Dean back as he climbs in. Dean looks up, down, anywhere that's away from this. Cas sinks down in the blankets Dean insisted on, gets comfortable like it's a fucking hotel, and Dean loves Cas so much, he hates him for being okay with this. 

_ Don't cry,  _ he tells himself.  _ You can text him when you get home. It's not over yet. There's a plan. _

So Dean kisses his angel goodbye, slowly and wistfully and he can taste the salt of tears, and Cas holds him, gripping his hair like he's having second thoughts. But Cas doesn't have the luxury of second thoughts, not this time. So he lets go. Dean withdraws with reluctance stronger than he ever thought he'd feel, and he reaches up to grip the lid with one hand. But he's holding Castiel's hand in the other, and he can't seem to let go.

Cas gazes up at him with those sad, sad blue eyes, and he presses his lips to Dean's hand, holds it against his forehead for a moment. 

Then he lets go. Again.

"Close the box, love," Cas softly whispers. "Everything's gonna be okay."

Dean breaks down. His hands shake on the coffin lid. He has no choice. No. Nothing will ever be okay. But this has to be done.

It's not fucking fair.

"I love you," he chokes out one last time, and Castiel sadly smiles, never looking away. Then, before he can think twice, Dean heaves the lid down. It bangs like a gunshot in an empty church, and feels like one too. 

He starts on the straps, sliding them through the heavy buckles and pulling them tight. It's agonizing. He's been to Hell and yet this hurts far more.

"I'm sorry, Cas, I'm so sorry," Dean cries as he secures all the locks and chains with shaking hands, as he makes sure his angel can never escape. "Fuck, I'm so sorry, I'm so, so fucking sorry and I love you, I'll always, always love you." 

He pauses when it's done, with his head down on the top of the coffin, and kind of puts his arms around it, and he sobs until he's out of breath. 

The last time Dean climbs out of this grave, he doesn't walk away. He turns back around, and he picks up his shovel.

Every pile of dirt that Dean drops in that hole, a piece of himself goes in with it. As he's completing the first layer, the one that fully obscures the coffin, Dean can barely see what he's doing through the blur of his saturated eyelashes. He doesn't really stop crying the entire time. His shoulder aches where the handprint is, and he focuses his entire being on that pain, the only thing that gets him through this torturous task.

By the time the grave has been filled, tracks of crystalline salt have drawn stripes down Dean's face, and he is empty. There's barely anything left of him. Not enough to make a person. Too much of him is underground now.

Too exhausted and numb to cry any more, Dean goes to his car. Dumps the shovels on the backseat because he can't find it in him to care about the dirt. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Dean knows it's a really bad sign that he's unable to try not to get his baby dirty, but he simply can't fix it. He can't fix anything anymore. 

So Dean gets in. And he starts driving home, even as he watches home get smaller and smaller in the rearview.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean starts to lose his shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ever have your cat sit on you making it impossible to get more wine bc same

Twice Dean had to talk himself out of a U-turn on that ride back to the bunker. This is the worst, most painful thing he's ever done. The car still smells like Cas. Dean wants to die. Five times he has to pull over and take a breather, sleep for a few minutes out of sheer exhaustion, and try not to throw up.

Sam is right there waiting for him when Dean arrives a few minutes to 3AM. He's stayed up way past his bedtime so that Dean wouldn't have to be alone when he came back. Dean is so touched by the gesture that he falls apart all over again. He lets Sam give him hugs and apologies and support, or anyway, as much support as you can give to a guy who's just buried his lover alive. Which isn't much. But Sammy does his best, because he's always been the good one. He even offers food, but Dean feels nauseated just looking at it. He manages to drink a little bit of water, hating how much effort that takes.

Dean lies awake in the dark after retreating to his room.

_ Not our room,  _ he reminds himself.  _ It's just my room now. _

_ Just my closet, my desk, my lamps, my cold, cold bed.  _

_ So fucking cold. _

_ Too cold to sleep in. _

Dean picks up his phone. 

He knows this is stupid, that they should save the batteries for important stuff, because no matter how many there are, they're finite. But he can't help it. He opens the messaging app.

Cas

i miss you already

**Cas:** ❤️I miss you too.

**Cas:** Are you ok? 

fuckin peachy

**Cas:** I mean, relatively

yeah nerd i'm alive

good as it's gonna get

  
  


**Cas:** I would love to talk, but it's late, and you just drove for over 6 hours. Get some sleep for me, ok?💙💙

can't sleep

i'm lonely

i feel like shit

  
  


**Cas:** Have you eaten since this afternoon?

no

can't. no appetite

so yeah dinner was water that Sam made me drink

  
  


**Cas:** Do you want me to call you?

um

yeah

please

just for a minute. it costs more battery

but i just need to hear you

Cas calls him. Dean picks up. The reception is bad.

"Hey darlin'," Dean says, fighting the urge to get emotional again. "Sorry I'm being such a baby about this."

"Don't be so hard on yourself," Cas replies, a bit staticky and broken up, but still hearable. "You are allowed to grieve."

"Yeah I–I know, Cas. I'm workin' on believing that, I am. I'm trying."

Castiel's voice is so gentle and reassuring. "You need to rest. Will you sleep for me? Just try?" 

Dean nods, and then realizes he's an idiot and whispers, "yes. I'll try." 

"Good boy," Cas softly says. "I love you."

"I love you too, Cas. Always. G'night."

"Always," Cas echoes. "Good night, Dean."

The silence falls back down over Dean. It's oppressive. He curls up under his blankets—not their blankets anymore, just  _ his— _ and he pulls what used to be Castiel's pillow in with him, and he buries his face in it. Dean cries himself to sleep that night.

  
  


*

  
  


The first couple of weeks are a blur. The ability to contact Cas is the only thing that keeps Dean some version of sane.

Dean calls Cas to say good night to him every night, and during the day, he tries hard to train himself to keep the texts to a minimum. 

But it's the little things that hurt most. The dumb, ordinary things. Like when Dean sees a funny picture and he wants to show it to Cas, or he finds a song that he wants to play for Cas. When he's up late, and Sammy's gone to bed, and he just wants a little company. Someone to sit on the couch with and have a beer and bullshit until he's tired enough to sleep. When he makes an extra cup of coffee out of habit, and there's nobody to drink it. The walk back to the kitchen to numbly pour that coffee down the drain. The little things hurt so fucking much. 

Then of course, there are times that Cas doesn't reply, doesn't answer the phone, because the Mark has got him and it's angry. It keeps him for days at a time. He calls Dean as soon as he gets free, tells Dean he loves him. Tells him that it's okay. But his voice is strained and uneven, and Dean knows it's a lie. 

Nearly two months in, Dean's grip on his sanity starts to slip. He drives back to Illinois one day, back to the barn, non-stop. He gets out of his car, goes to where he buried his angel, gets comfortable, and unlocks his phone. 

Dean stares at his phone for a long time; he wants to type something profound, something moving. But his mind is blank so all he ends up sending is

Cas

i wish you were here

**Cas:** I know, love.❤️ Tell me about your day.

it was ok i guess. 

did a grocery run just to get out of the house

sam is cooking a lot lately

i got a carrot that looks like it has a dick lmao

**Cas:** You laugh, but logically a carrot with a penis is a better choice, financially speaking, than one without. 

obviously

that's totally why i got it

**Cas:** Of course. 😇

Dean gets up, goes to the car, and retrieves a towel and a blanket. The towel manages to cover enough space that most of Dean's body isn't in the dirt. It's a mild night, but he wraps himself in the blanket anyway. It'll get chillier later. Once he's settled in, Dean keeps texting with Cas for a while longer. He feels so close to Cas here, it's almost like he isn't gone.

It's around 2 by the time Dean finally calls Cas to say good night.

There's an odd silence after Dean greets Cas, and then,

"Dean…your signal is…very clear tonight."

He's right. It's way too fucking pristine. Dean clears his throat, guilty. "Uh, yeah. What–what about it?" 

"Dean are you here?" Cas asks, and Dean supposes, in retrospect, that he shouldn't have expected Cas to not notice. He lies anyway though.

"No."

Cas sighs, maybe a little frustrated, but mostly just sad. "Tell me the truth, Dean." His tone is far from harsh, but Dean would've been compelled either way.

"Okay. Fine. I'm here," Dean admits. "Don't worry about it. It's not a big deal."

"This isn't good for you." Dean convinces himself he can faintly hear Cas through the ground. He closes his eyes and listens. "I know it may seem to be," Cas goes on, "but it will only hurt you more. Dean, please go back home and sleep."

"I'm sleeping right here," Dean says stubbornly. "I'll be fine."

"Dean, you can't—"

"I just wanna be close to you, okay?!" Dean almost shouts. He's lying on his back, staring up into the night sky and he grips his phone hard, trying to stop his hand from shaking. He exhales, listening to the silence on the other end. "Just let me have this, Cas. I don't wanna sleep alone anymore. Just let me be close to you!"

Cas sounds a little tearful when he speaks again. "Dean. I'm worried about you."

"Yeah, you and me both," Dean laughs bitterly. 

Despite Castiel's pleas, Dean sleeps there that night, right there in the dirt, only a few feet away from his angel. And yet so, so far.

He drives the 6 hours to sleep there the next day too. He starts doing it every day. It takes so much out of him, that he's barely aware during the day, and he's numb to all the guilt and hopelessness. It feels good. 

Until Dean reaches his breaking point. Until one afternoon he veers off the road and tumbles into a ditch.

Dean wakes slowly, peeling himself away from the dashboard with a groan. His head fucking hurts and his vision isn't quite right and his thoughts are a little jumbled up, but he's pretty sure he's alive. Which isn't exactly a relief. 

As his focus crawls back, Dean can see a dark red stain where his head just was. He reaches up to gingerly touch his face, and his hand comes away smeared with blood. 

"Fuck," Dean mutters, craning his neck to get a look out the windshield. It doesn't look too serious; he didn't crash into anything, and there's no smoke or odors he should be worried about. He's just hit his head somethin' shitty is all. That's all. He just needs to call Sammy and get towed the fuck out of this ditch. 

Then Dean remembers what he was doing before he crashed. Going to Cas. Practically on autopilot, he gets out of the Impala, and he climbs up out of the ditch alone, leaving his baby behind. He already drove for 4 hours. There's only 2 more to go, right? It'll be a long trudge but it's doable. Besides, his head doesn't hurt too much now, and he can see okay. His ears are ringing pretty loud but that's fine. Those blinding pinpricks of yellow and red and white that are drifting around at the edges of his vision? He can handle them. It's doable.

Dean starts walking. 

He walks…far. For a long time. The road twists off in directions he doesn't remember it twisting off into. But he keeps on going. Here and there he spots a tree, and it looks really,  _ really  _ tall. Like unnaturally tall. 

Dust floats across the road in a slight breeze, and Dean watches it for probably 10 minutes before it reaches him. It swirls and floats around him like smoke, and he can feel the tiny particles on his skin, each and every one of them.

Dean reaches out to let the dust filter through his fingers, and there's dried blood on his hand. 

That's not good, right?

When did he get injured? Or is the blood somebody else's?

He holds his hand in front of him, studying it, trying to arrive at some sort of conclusion, and all the while he's still walking. 

Surely it's been 2 hours, so why isn't he there yet? The world is just a bit hard to understand right now. That's all.

The sun sure isn't helping matters. It's very, very bright today. 

And was it always this fucking _ loud? _

Was the sun  _ always this loud? _

Probably.

Another hour or minute later, Dean starts to notice a car following him. It's a forest green pickup with a rumbling engine, and it cruises along behind him for a while, then beside him for a day or two before it stops. 

Dean's not certain what exactly happened between the truck stopping and now, but there's a guy now, and he's saying words. Dean gets the gist of what the words are. 

"'s okay," Dean mumbles, "okay, I'm okay…"

But he's falling. He's not staying upright. He's not okay.

_ Fuck. _

Before he can hit the pavement, Dean feels someone hastily catching him. Just before he blacks out, he realizes the sun wasn't making any noise at all. 

  
  
  


*

  
  


"Hey," the voice says. "Dean, hey, how ya f— whoa whoa whoa don't try to sit up, don't try to sit up yet, just lie down okay?"

Dean lets the stranger ease him back down without a fight. His head is killing him but it's clearer now, and as his brain comes back online, he starts to take in his surroundings. He's lying across the tiny, snug backseat of a pickup, and there's a young black guy wearing cuffed flannel in the driver's seat, turning to look at him with worried brown eyes. 

Dean squints and almost tries to get up again before he remembers what he was just told. 

"Do I know you…?" Dean decides that's a good place to start, because he really doesn't want to feed the sparks of panic that are gathering at the back of his mind. He'll remember how he got here. It's just taking a minute.

The guy's expression changes a bit. "Uh, yeah, Dean, I lived with you guys for a while, me and all the other hunters? It's Trev, man. Trevor Marshall? C'mon, I don't look  _ that  _ different," he says, and he laughs a little, but Dean can see that concerned look he's giving, and that's never a good thing. 

And Dean's having trouble remembering this Trevor. That's a really bad thing. 

"Think I um…think I need more details or something," Dean says with uncertainty. That's what he needs. It'll come to him.

Trevor scoots his seat back a bit and turns to face Dean better. "Your brother sent me," he says slowly. "Said he got a weird call from you, like you called and he didn't hear anything from your end. So he hit up the nearest hunter to go see what was up, and, well, here I am. Dude, I found you on the side of the road. You remember any of this?"

Dean shakes his head. He's gotten clearer on Trevor, enough to know he's safe, and of course he knows who Sam is. But that other stuff? Blank. 

"Where am I?" Dean asks, and his voice is getting shaky because those sparks of panic are brighter now, too bright to ignore anymore. "Where the fuck am I? What did I do!?"

Trevor puts a hand on Dean's shoulder as he starts to sit up yet again. 

"Okay, take it easy man, don't panic, you're safe," he says. "You're in Illinois. You were in an accident, you went off the road. Your car's a little dinged but it's okay, and it's being towed home. I got your phone, it's in that." He points to the pocket on the back of the passenger seat, and Dean lunges for it. Only to be held back again. Trevor hands him the phone instead.

Dean shuts his eyes, dizzy and confused. How did this happen? Why the hell is he out here? Illinois? Doesn't he live in Kansas? Maybe he was on a case. No, that's wrong.

"I was going to visit someone," Dean says, frantically turning his phone on. 

"Yeah, your man," Trevor replies. "The angel. Cas, right? That's what Sam thought, anyway, he said it was hard to explain but you were probably here for Cas. He got a place out here or something?"

Cas. That's right.

_ I'm visiting Cas. My angel. _

_ But where is Cas?  _ Does _ he live here? _

"He's…he's, away somewhere," Dean tries to explain, but his recollection is so fucking blurry. He scrolls through his texts to Cas, and in that moment he hates himself for setting it up to delete old texts. Those probably would've given him clues. 

All he's seeing in the recent ones is a lot of "I miss you"s and "I love you"s, random chatter, and good night/good morning messages.

"Yeah, he's away for sure," Dean confirms. "Guess I should call him, huh?"

Trevor nods. "Go for it. I already texted Sam, and he wants to talk to you too. Like, eventually anyway. Y'all want a minute?" 

Dean shrugs, but Trevor gets out of the truck anyway to give them privacy. Dean takes a deep breath and dials Cas.

"Hey, Dean." The reception is ass and Cas sounds tired. He's got the Mark of Cain now, Dean remembers that. It's under control of course, but keeping it that way wears him out sometimes. 

"Uh hi. Cas. Okay, listen, don't freak out or anything, but I got into an accident and my head's kinda fucked up."

"What? What happened? Dean are you—"

"I'm okay, I'm okay," Dean says hastily. "But I, um. I might need you to help fill in some blanks for me. I…I'm missing some memories, I think. I mean I'm sure they'll come back but…" 

"Alright," Cas says slowly, his tone very neutral and level. "How much do you remember?"

Dean runs a hand through his hair. "Pretty much none of today. But I think I was going to visit you."

"Remind me again…where exactly?"

"Don't know. I'm in Illinois. What are you even doing all the way out here?" Dean is scraping at the edges of his brain but the last thing he remembers is… "I know we put away groceries. You and I. Like yesterday, maybe?" 

It's just a regular, mundane memory, but at least Dean is confident that it happened sometime recently. 

There's a long moment of silence on the other end. Then Castiel's voice parts the white noise again.

"Yes. Yes, we did, but it was earlier this week." Cas sounds… _ off,  _ somehow, but Dean can't pinpoint it. He's probably just imagining things. Cas goes on, "we um…we got into a fight, Dean. We…agreed to give each other some space."

_ Well, shit. _

"A fight? Cas, what the hell—did we break up?!" 

"No," Cas whispers, soft and sad. "No, we just need space. That's all. It–it was my fault. Dean, I still love you. I love you so dearly and I always will. But please go back home and rest, okay? Please don't try to find me." 

Dean's head is spinning with questions, but he can't get them in order. Of  _ course _ he had to go and forget something so important. He doesn't even know which angle to go for first. This is so much to take in at once, and for the life of him Dean can't remember any of this.

"Cas, where are you?!" Dean eventually asks, trying to hold himself together. 

"I can't tell you that," Cas answers, voice shaking. "I'm sorry. Just trust me on this, Dean,  _ please. _ I promise I will never stop loving you. But you have to trust me."

_ Cas sounds like he's gonna cry. What the  _ fuck _ is going on?  _

Dean forces himself not to demand any more answers, and it's a fucking helluva struggle.

"Okay," he finally says. 

"Okay," Cas echoes. "Text me when you're home safe?"

"Y-yeah. Yeah, of course." Dean wants to have a goddamn tantrum. This feels way too out of control, and he's way too powerless all of the sudden, and it's too much, it's too fucking much. "I love you," he says weakly, and then abruptly ends the call. 

Cas had claimed responsibility for the fight, but Dean still feels like it must've been his own fault. He sighs, miserable and frustrated. In the span of a few hours, he's fucked up his car, fucked up his brain, and now he finds out that he's fucked up his relationship and can't even remember it. How did everything go downhill so fast? Dean lets his phone drop to the carpeted floor and closes his eyes, pulling one arm over his face. 

A few minutes later he hears the door to the pickup creaking open, and Trevor returning to his seat. 

"You good?" Dean hears him ask. 

_No, I'm a garbage fire,_ Dean thinks, but on the outside he just nods. 

"You wanna talk to your brother, or…?"

Dean sighs. "I'll just text him. I'm fuckin' tired."

"No surprise there," Trevor says with a chuckle. "Sleep it off, man. I'll drive you back home. And take it easy for a while. Your brain'll appreciate it."

"Thanks," Dean mumbles. And he lets himself fall into oblivion, completely forgetting to text Sam.

  
  


*

  
  


Hours later, Dean is back in the bunker, and he's bombarded Sam with everything that happened, and he's tried to get something more out of him than he got from Cas, but Sam just gets quiet for a minute…and then tells him he should trust Cas. Dean is fed up with both of them. He goes to bed in a huff, but as soon as he's out of Sam's sight, he slows down and braces himself on the wall most of the way to his room.

Dean calls Cas again before he goes to sleep. Cas picks up after a few rings, but he doesn't say anything. 

Through the static of the terrible reception, Dean hears Cas stifle a shuddering breath, and his heart fucking breaks. 

"Cas," he says despairingly, "if–if this is because of something I did…baby, I'm so sorry. Please just come back and we can fix this." 

"It's not your fault, Dean," Cas tells him in a broken voice. "I promise. I know it doesn't make sense, but we can't be together right now and I can't explain the reason. Just remember that I love you, okay?"

_ He can't explain it? Why the fuck not?! _

Dean gets a horrible thought then. One that chills him just to consider it. And oh, he tries to stuff it back down but—

"Cas does this have to do with the Mark?" 

_ Please say no. _

Silence.

A heavy, trembling sigh.

_ Fuck,  _ Dean thinks.  _ Fuck fuck fuck. _

"It does, doesn't it?" He demands, and he could swear he hears Cas flinch.

"Yes," Cas finally admits, "it does. But you  _ have _ to trust me. We can still talk, but we can't see each other. Stop looking for me, Dean. It's better this way."

" _ Bullshit! _ " Dean shouts, tossing his phone across the bed. He tugs at the ends of his hair, clenches his jaw, shakes his head as if he can deny this all away. He wants to unhear it, to go back to not knowing. He wants to go to bed and wake up to find out this was all a bad dream.

Despite the tinny sound of Cas saying his name from the phone, Dean gets up and turns away. Heart pounding, he starts taking off his shoes and clothing. He doesn't have to listen to this. He's going to fucking bed.

At least, that's what he thought. 

Until he gets his shirt off. 

Dean stops dead, completely frozen. Staring with wide eyes at the handprint spread across his shoulder. The  _ fucking handprint. _

"What the fuck…?" He whispers in disbelief, carefully brushing his fingers over it. The scar tissue is new, soft and pink. He fits his own hand over it, comparing, as if there's even a chance that he could've done this to himself somehow. It's not a match. Dean gets a fleeting image of himself, pleasantly buzzed, hanging upside down off the edge of his bed, half-watching some terrible reality series on Netflix. More fascinated with lining up his hand with Castiel's because that's just one of those things you do when you're in a new relationship. He remembers leaning up a bit, and then falling back down, giggling because Cas had finally cracked a smile.

And then, everything comes back. 

All the missing pieces of Dean's recent history just crash back into place. 

The Mark, and how it got too strong.

Castiel, and how he got too dangerous.

He remembers Castiel's hands all over him, remembers this scar being seared back into his skin and how it had hurt so fucking good. He remembers his own hands, laid flat in reverence, on the box that has sealed away his beautiful angel.

The box. The  _ fucking box _ he locked Cas into and buried. In Illinois.

This is so much worse than what Dean was wishing to erase only minutes ago. Tears well up in his eyes as he takes in the horrifying reality he'd been lucky enough to forget for a while.

Dean falls back onto his bed and scoops his phone up. The call is still going. 

"I buried you," Dean gasps, "Cas, I fucking buried you! God, everything went to shit and I had to fucking  _ bury you! _ "

He's met with another brief silence, and then Cas whispers, "Your memories. They came back, didn't they?"

"Yeah, just now, and I wish they hadn't! And I wanna be mad at you for lying, but I want the lie back now!"

"I'm sorry, love," Cas says softly. "And I'm sorry for the lie. I…I just wanted you to be in a little less pain. I wanted you to sleep at home again. I've been so worried about you."

Dean tries to breathe, tries to swallow back the constriction in his throat, but he's not doing very well. 

"I know," he says, and he's pretty much given up on not crying. "A–and I'm sorry too, Cas. You…you've told me that and I didn't care. I–I didn't listen. I should've listened." 

"It's alright," Cas says. "Just please sleep at home, okay? Just so that I can have some peace of mind?"

"Yeah, Cas, I will. No more sleeping in the dirt, promise. But I—fuck, I just miss you so much."

"I know," Cas whispers. "And it's okay if you come visit now and then. I won't deny you that."

Dean closes his eyes for a moment, overwhelmed by everything he's feeling. All of the sorrow over what he no longer has, and the pitiful joy over what little he can still do.

He barely holds it together long enough to say his good nights, and the moment the call ends, he crumbles. Dean has never expected to find himself wishing Castiel was dead. But he does now. This fate is so much worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sometimes your imagination runs away with you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how about that garbage fire of a finale am i right

Some days, Dean pretends. He pretends he's in a long distance relationship, and that Cas is gonna fly down and visit eventually. 

He's not trapped underground and doomed to slowly go insane, he's just volunteering in another country where there's kids who need help.

Dean didn't bury Cas with his own hands. No, Cas is a fisherman, and he's gone out to sea with his crew for the season, and they'll be out there for the next few months.

No, Cas isn't suffering eternally in a casket, he's just traveling. For work. 

No, he hasn't been sealed away forever in order to contain an ancient, all powerful cosmic WMD. Dean's sweetheart just has an important job. Sometimes he has to relocate for a while, and it's never easy, but they always get through it. Sometimes the reception is bad, because Cas is on an airplane, or in a subway tunnel, or maybe the coverage isn't as good where he is. 

Sometimes he doesn't answer, because he has to turn off his phone during meetings. Sometimes Cas is stressed out when he comes back from those meetings, and his voice will be strained or a little ragged, and Dean will do most of the talking. Cas doesn't talk about his day, because it was all work, and once he's off the clock, settled in bed with Dean on the phone, he's done thinking about work. He just asks Dean about his day instead, and Dean obliges. 

It's difficult not to mention how much he misses Cas, but Dean tries to ease off on it. He doesn't want Cas to feel guilty. Cas worked hard for his career and it might be exhausting sometimes, but he's passionate about it. And his job—it's important. He's responsible for things and people need him. So Cas has to be away. It's all for the right reasons. Besides, Cas feels enough guilt without Dean adding onto it. He's always apologizing, saying how sorry he is that they can't be together.

Some nights Cas cries, laments how he'll never see Dean again. Of course, that's just his anxiety talking. He tends to catastrophize a little when he's under a lot of pressure. So Dean tells him not to think about it too much, that it's okay and they can still talk to each other. 

Cas is just away for now. He'll be back in time for Christmas if everything goes well. And if not, Dean will send him pictures. They're gonna have a tree this year, and lights and candy canes and all that cute silver screen shit. Eileen insisted on it. And if Cas is back by then, the first thing Dean's gonna do is yank that bastard under some mistletoe and kiss him senseless. Late into the night they'll curl up on the couch after everyone's gone to sleep. And perhaps then, Cas will tell Dean a few stories from his trip.

Until then, they'll text. It's not easy. But they always get through it.

Dean would never be able to recall exactly when, but one day, the barrier between fantasy and reality sprung the tiniest leak. Just like that stupid bridge in Paris, every time Dean affixed another fantasy to it, it got weaker. And weaker. Until it started to fall apart. And then it just kept on falling, until nothing was left of it, snuffed away like a candle in a storm. Dean doesn't even notice the day he wakes up and it's all gone. He starts to feel hopeful again. He starts to text Cas without hiding it. 

That's right about when Sam takes notice.

"What's goin' on with you lately?" Sam asks Dean during a drive home from a hunt. "You seem…a lot happier."

Dean grins at him. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. It's really good to see actually."

"Was I being some kinda downer or somethin' before?"

Sam fidgets with the frayed sleeve of his jacket. "Look, Dean," he says, "you weren't being a downer, okay? You have every right to be upset about what…about what happened."

"You mean Cas being away?" Dean asks, and Sam nods quietly.

"I know it's been really tough on you."

Dean shrugs. "I guess I've just been focusing less on him being gone, and more on that he's not gone forever, y'know?" He says. "And anyway, it's not like we can't text each other."

Sam gives him a strange look. "You've been texting him? Cas—? You've been  _ texting _ Cas?"

Dean quirks an eyebrow at him. "Yeah? I always do when he travels. Why wouldn't I?"

Sammy can be remarkably scatterbrained sometimes for such a smart guy. Maybe he deletes a few things now and then, to make room for more knowledge in that head of his. 

After a long moment of silence, Sam asks, slowly and carefully, "Dean. Where is Cas right now?"

"New York City," Dean answers, and he smiles to himself, imagining how Cas probably reacted when he first saw one of those statue people in Times Square. "Y'know, the usual. Work shit."

Sam looks legitimately distressed now when he asks, "Dean, are you okay? A–Are you… _ high? _ "

Dean blinks at him, frowning in confusion. "Not that I know of. Uh, why're you asking?"

"Because you're—because Cas is  _ not _ in—he's–he's…" Sam stops himself. Like the rest of that sentence was too horrible to say, like he was afraid to finish it.

Suddenly Dean is afraid too, and he doesn't even know what he's afraid  _ of, _ but this dread just appears and starts circling him on the edges of his mind, just out of reach. The unnamed panic seizes his heart in a frigid vice grip, driving his pulse up so fast he's fucking dizzy, and suddenly he's got a nauseating tunnel vision. 

Dean pulls over. 

He's shaking his head, pushing the dread back out of sight, denying whatever it wants to stab him with. 

Sam's voice is muffled in Dean's ears, but he can guess what's being said—it's the usual gauntlet. Holy shit what's wrong. Are you okay. Say something. All that crap. Hand on the shoulder, softer tone, smaller words. Dean knows it too well. He presses his eyes shut as tightly as he can, breathing hard. 

His brain is a mess. _ Why the fuck am I panicking,  _ is all he can think. _ What is happening to me?! _

Dean treads the chaos for a few more minutes before he stops feeling like he's about to die. 

The road is quiet except for the mournful call of a night bird somewhere in the pine trees. Sam looks really scared. Dean lets his head drop to the steering wheel, practically hugging it to keep himself grounded.

"Sorry," he mumbles, "I–I don't know what that was just now. I'm okay. I'm okay."

_ I'm okay. _

_ I am okay. _

_ I am not okay. _

_ I am so fucking far from okay and I can't even figure out what's got me like this. _

"You gotta tell me what is going on, Dean," Sam is saying. 

"I can't, I  _ don't know, _ " Dean replies, then adds in a whisper, "I don't think I want to either."

"What does that  _ mean, _ man?" Sam is desperate, but Dean's instincts are begging him to shut this down.

"We're going home," he barks, sitting up and peeling back onto the road. "I'm not talking about it anymore." 

Sam thankfully doesn't argue, but for the rest of the ride, he keeps glancing at Dean like you glance at someone who's off their rocker, and they might hurt themselves at any time. Which, Dean admits, isn't terribly far from the truth.  _ Something's gone wrong with me, _ Dean thinks,  _ something separate from all the shit that was already wrong that is. A new wrong thing. Great. _

As the days crawl by, Dean gets fewer texts from Cas, and it makes him sulky. He sees Sam and Eileen talking to each other in sign language, and he knows they're talking about him. Sam keeps his poker face, but Eileen is an open book, constantly sending concerned looks in Dean's direction. He can't guess what the fuck they're both so worked up about, and he's starting to feel like a stranger in his own home. An animal being observed at the zoo. Maybe even a criminal. A mental patient. A fucking _failed_ _science experiment._

One night Dean calls Cas, intent on talking his ear off about how strange things have been and maybe even finally badgering him about when he's coming back. Dean never does that, but he's lonely and he's feeling so damn isolated, he's gonna make an exception this time. But when Cas picks up, just saying his name and nothing else, Dean knows right away that they won't be doing much talking tonight. His voice has got that deep, dangerous sweetness to it that's only for Dean.

"Where are you right now?" 

Dean gulps and whispers, "home. Our room."

"Shut the door," Cas says, but Dean is already pushing it closed. Cas hums in satisfaction, a low rumble that always makes Dean weak. "What are you wearing?" 

"Tee shirt. Jeans." 

Any plans Dean had before are quickly being forgotten. 

"Take them off," Cas orders, and there's that dominating tone Dean started thirsting for from the moment this call began. 

Dean puts his phone on speaker, turns the volume down low, and leaves it on the bed. He strips everything off and drops the clothing beside the phone, like he always does, so that Cas can hear the soft impact.

On the other end, Cas slowly inhales. "Good boy," he purrs. "Now get down on your knees."

Dean obeys, dropping to the floor with his back against the bed. He tips his head back to rest right next to his phone, right next to Cas. 

"Done."

" _ Good, _ " Cas says, and only he can saturate a single word with that much lust. "Are you hard for me, Dean?"

He is. Almost painfully now. They don't get to do this half as often as they should, so it doesn't take much to get him going when they finally do. 

"Yeah," Dean answers, "yeah I'm fuckin' hard, Cas, and I wish you were here see it."

"So am I, Dean, and I wish you were here to _ suck it. _ "

Dean bites his lip and softly moans just thinking about it. "Fuck, I miss wrapping my lips around your cock," he whispers, and the audible hitch of breath he hears from Cas is purely intoxicating. 

"No holding back tonight." Cas is already sounding husky and desperate. "You were so good for me last time, but tonight I need you  _ now. _ I want you to touch yourself and I want to hear every fucking sound out of that beautiful mouth, you understand me?"

"Yes, Castiel," Dean answers without pause. He slides one hand down to stroke his cock and with the other, he pulls the phone close to his face. "If you had me right now...right this second—"

"I would fuck you until you're biting the mattress," Cas growls, and Dean immerses himself in those hot, heady tremors that the angel's words bring out of him.

Dean thinks he might've had some other plan for this call, originally, but it's completely left his mind. There's only room for Cas in there now. 

*

  
  


Weeks pass, and Cas' texts keep getting fewer and farther between. When Dean whines about it, Cas is always on about the batteries and conserving them. Dean doesn't know why the fuck he can't just plug the damn thing into a charger. Maybe his hotel has shitty sockets. Or maybe he just forgot to bring an adapter. Cas must be real busy with that important job of his, probably has no time to worry about these things. Dean doesn't want to fault him for that, but sometimes he feels just a little jealous of Cas' coworkers, because they get to have Cas all day.

Maybe Dean had drunk one too many on the night he lost patience. 

It's just before bed, and he's on the phone with Cas, and Cas just won't quit talking about the battery and how they should be texting instead, but God fucking dammit, Dean just wanted to hear his voice, because the past several nights they've texted good night instead of calling, and Dean just misses hearing him, that's  _ all.  _ He isn't asking for much. He really isn't.

"I should get off the line," Cas is saying. "My phone is nearly dead. I can text you a little bit more, okay?"

"No, man, this isn't fair," Dean says, louder than he should've. "I'm getting so sick of this,  _ when the fuck  _ are you coming  _ home, _ Cas?!"

Cas gets very quiet for a long minute. Dean hears him try to speak, but he only manages to say Dean's name a couple of times before he dissolves into tears.

Dean is so shocked he barely has a chance to react before the line goes dead—whether by Cas hanging up, or his phone dying, Dean's not sure. Confused and scared and guilty as hell, Dean tries to call back. Nothing. He sends Cas a few texts, and he knows he shouldn't expect a reply tonight, but he lies awake agonizing over it anyway. 

A day passes, then another. Still nothing from Cas. 

Dean goes to Sam. Sam can always help. He's good at this shit.

Dean finds Sam at the map table, hunched over a book as always. Eileen is squished up next to him, reading the same book and cross-referencing stuff on her phone. Dean cuts right to the chase.

"Sammy, Cas won't answer his phone and I think it's my fault."

They look up at him. Sam fidgets. He turns to Eileen and hastily signs a bunch of stuff to her. Dean catches his and Cas' name signs, but not a lot else. Eileen nods and replies something and then they both turn their attention back to Dean. Eileen looks like she's about to cry and Sam is holding his hands way too still.

And suddenly Dean just knows. He  _ knows  _ everything is about to fall apart, he knows something is horribly, horribly fucking wrong and he's about to find out what. 

Dean feels himself take a step back. He sees Sam quickly push his chair back and start to stand. Dean hears his heart hammering through his skull.

And then he's running. He's just  _ running.  _ The walls and the floor don't look  _ real _ and he's breathing too fast, everything's hazy but he has to get somewhere. Somewhere. But where he winds up is a dead end. 

Dean skids to a stop, panting, wild eyes searching for a way out. There isn't one. He can hear rapid footsteps catching up to him. He backs up to the wall, then just slides down, pulling his knees close to him and hiding his face like a child. There's nothing he can do. There's always nothing he can do.

Sam slowly approaches, with Eileen a few steps behind. 

"Dean," he says a little frantically, crouching beside Dean's huddled form. He touches Dean's shoulder, and Dean flinches and lifts his head, already shaking it.

"No, Sam, whatever you're gonna say I don't wanna know, I don't wanna know—! Please just—just  _ don't,  _ I don't know why I'm so fucking scared but it's gotta be for a reason and I  _ don't wanna know! _ "

Sam takes a breath, and there's a weariness around his eyes that makes Dean want to cry.

"You're gonna find out some way or another, Dean," he says, "and I'll be damned if I let you find out on your own with nobody around to support you."

Dean covers his eyes with one hand, still shaking his head, still refusing, still denying. He hears Eileen join them on his left side. He has to admit he does feel supported, surrounded by the only family he's got left. Except for Cas of course. He's got Cas too.

Doesn't he?

_ Yeah, I have Cas.  _

_ Right?  _

_ Of course I do. _

_ Cas will come home, won't he? _

_ And we'll talk it out and everything— _

_ Everything is gonna be— _

_ It's gonna be okay, isn't it? _

_ Isn't it?! _

_ No. _

_ Nothing will ever be— _

"He's gonna come back," Dean is saying. He's not really sure when his thoughts had started turning into words. "He–he's gonna—Cas is—he's coming home, he's gonna come home, he just—he has a–an important job Sammy, that's all, he has to be away right now but he'll be back. He'll be back, he's just on a fucking trip and he's gonna come back!"

Dean doesn't know why there are tears running down his face. He doesn't know why Sam and Eileen are hugging him like this, why Eileen is crying now too and Sam keeps saying sorry like something's  _ happened, _ like Castiel died and he hasn't found out about it yet or—

"Something happened to Cas," Dean whispers, and the other two go quiet. "He's dead, isn't he?"

"Not…not exactly," Sam answers with a choked voice.

_ Fuck. _

Dean tries to sit up a bit, but he finds that he actually really wants to stay in their arms, and he thinks the better of it.

"Okay," Dean says, swallowing hard. "Just hit me with it."

_ And hopefully it won't fucking break me,  _ he thinks. 

But he has a bad, bad feeling that it will.

  
  


*

  
  


Dean drinks that night. A  _ lot. _ He locks himself in his room with as much liquor as he could find, and just drowns in it. Eventually, inevitably, he texts Cas.

Cas

baby

i love you

wtf is wronh with me

i made a mistake Cas

we definitely.shouldnt of buried you

**Cas:** Dean

ima go there to you, and ima dig u up ok

oh

hey you ansered

hey i love u

and also miss y

gonaa dig yuo up and figure thibgs out ok

**Cas:** I love you too. But we can't do that.

**Cas:** I think you've been unwell, Dean.

i can fix it Cas

i have to fix it cuz 

you can't just like live their

that's like super not pratcical 

**Cas:** You know why I must stay here. I know it's horrible, but it's necessary.

fuck that

**Cas:** Dean...call me

k

Dean calls. Cas picks up immediately.

"Hello Dean," he says, and he sounds very fucking tired.

"Hey," Dean replies with a bit of a slur. "Look I'm sorry, like about these past couple of weeks probably. I think something in my brain got fucked up."

"Yes." Cas sounds sad now. But soft. "Your reality was too traumatic. So your brain gave you a different one."

"Yeah. Yeah, that. That sounds right."

"Dean, I'm sorry I haven't been replying to you. I'm ashamed to say this, but I didn't want to respond, I didn't know how."

Dean tries to laugh, but it's bitter and it chokes him on its way out. "Who the fuck  _ would've _ known how to respond? I was off my damn rocker, Cas. But I'm gonna fix it, I'm gonna go down there and I'm gonna dig you back up and we–we're gonna hit the books, man. We'll fix you, this was—I made the wrong choice and we'll fix it."

"Dean…" Cas sighs, mournfully like they've had this conversation too many times. Fuck, they probably have. "There is nothing we can do anymore. You did everything you could for me, you know that. You didn't fail me, and I don't blame you. Please do not dig me up."

It probably makes sense, what Cas is saying. But Dean just can't see it through all these damn empty bottles. Right now, he simply cannot understand why he stopped trying.

"There's always somethin', Cas," Dean insists. "I shouldn't've given up on you, I–I—"

"I black out for several  _ days _ sometimes, Dean!" Cas raises his voice and there's a scary tinge of hysteria in there somewhere. "I wake up with self-inflicted wounds because the only blood the Mark can satiate itself with is my own! It will only get worse. I  _ cannot _ be saved!"

Dean is sitting on the edge of his bed, frozen, barely keeping a hold on his shaking phone. For a few seconds, he just stares straight ahead, at nothing, really. Then he keels to one side with a soft thump. He blinks away tears.

"I wanna save you. So badly," Dean whispers. "I wish I could. I want there to be some kinda last minute cure like there always has been, and we could rescue you and…I just—I'm so fucking sorry, I just wanna make it all okay again and–and I actually wanted to get hitched, man. Get a little house or something that we could live in and I wanted you to have a garden where you could follow your fucking honeybees, Cas, 'cause you're totally a plant guy, don't even deny it, and we—we were gonna be  _ happy,  _ Cas, I…I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you, my stupid  _ pointless life, _ it's…it's just  _ not fair. _ "

"I wanted it to be close to a beach," Cas says faintly after a moment of painful silence. "The house. You've always mentioned the sand and the waves when you talk about retiring."

Dean nods, sniffing. "I would've liked that."

"Not sure what I could grow in sand though."

"I was gonna build you a raised bed," Dean says and his fucking voice breaks again. He's heavy, weighed down by all the things that should've been. Saying them just hurts, but he's gotta take some of this weight off sometimes. It might just crush him into dust if he doesn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly i'm still livid like how did that get approved


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> life staggers on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm writing this and also a really fluffy fic at the same time so my brain is how it feels to chew 5 gum

During the first few weeks, they'd agreed not to send media messages, or do any video calls, because of the battery cost. But as their time grows shorter, Dean can't refrain from it anymore. It only takes a few rough nights for him to cave.

The phone rings a few times before Cas answers and a grainy video flickers on. His features are lit only by the glow of a screen on minimum brightness, painting ghostly shadows under his bloodshot eyes. He looks like hell, but still takes Dean's breath away. It's suddenly hitting him— how long it's been since he's seen his angel's face. How did he go this long without it?

"Hey, Cas," Dean says with a smile he hopes isn't as gray as it feels.

"Dean," Cas replies, and he's trying to hide the joyful side of his voice, trying to keep from encouraging this, but Dean can hear it. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah I…I just wanted to see you." 

"It has been a long time, hasn't it?" Cas touches the screen with his fingertips as if he could reach out to Dean through it. God, if only. 

Dean nods, propping his phone up right next to his pillow as he settles into bed. He flips on the bedside lamp and curls up next to Cas.

"You've got more freckles than I remember," Cas says softly.

Dean averts his eyes for a second, chewing on his lower lip. "Uh, yeah," he mumbles, "got a lot of sun for a while there when I…when I was visiting you every day." 

Cas smiles, but it's got an undertone of deep wistfulness to it. Kinda like watching a stray balloon float up into the sky, and the sky looks so cheery with a balloon in it, but you also know that the balloon is going to keep on rising, higher and higher, until it bursts into pieces and plummets back down. 

"I miss the sun," Cas whispers. "I miss seeing you in the sunlight. Your skin always smelled so good when you were in the sun all day."

Dean tries to laugh a bit. "Creep."

"I miss watching you sleep as well."

Dean actually laughs this time. It's sparse, but it counts. The mirth drains from his voice quickly when he speaks again though. "Honestly, jokes aside I miss you watching me sleep," he admits. "I just…I miss having you here with me. Especially nights. Feels like there's always a monster under the bed now, y'know?"

Cas nods and says quietly, "I know."

Dean gets hooked on the video calls before long. He feeds on the brief moments of happiness it gives him. He sleeps better. Phone sex is a lot more fun. Dean's got no idea how he lasted until now without seeing Castiel, but he certainly can't do it anymore.

They plan the video calls a day ahead, and on that day, they don't text at all, to preserve Cas' batteries. Those are lonely days. Dean goes through the motions, smiles and nods to everyone, wears away the time until he can see Cas. It's the best part of the week. It's a reason to keep going. Because lately, Dean has developed a mounting suspicion that nobody else really needs him, a dread that's huge and heavy and _so soft,_ like if he leaned into it, lay down and curled up in it, he might just be smothered and leave all this shit behind. Might not even mind it. He's dead weight to what little family he has left, just a damaged wreck that they have to keep track of. 

But every time he sees his angel's face again, sees those pretty blue eyes crinkle at the corners, sees those increasingly harrowed features soften when the call connects, Dean feels the tiny flame of hope within him get a bit warmer, a bit taller, if just for a little while. It's only a matter of time before it dies back down to blue again, but it's all he's got. 

Dean tries.

He tries to ease into some sort of new normal, tries to have days or at least hours where he doesn't torture himself thinking about Castiel. About his beautiful angel, his angel who's been condemned to suffer in a living Hell for eternity—fucking _eternity,_ and how sometimes Dean prays that Cas will lose his sanity sooner rather than later, because at least then he won't be lucid anymore. 

Sam and Eileen are developing a strong partnership, and Dean is glad for them. He is. Except for the part of him that's fucking bitter, and resentful and envious and hurt, because all he'd wanted was a happy ever after with Castiel, that's all, just a stupid, cheesy, domestic chick flick life. Nothing else. But no, he doesn't get that. So why the fuck does everyone else get it?

Dean would gladly spend another 40 in Hell, more even, if it meant he could absolve whatever sins made him deserve this. He'd do time for Cas too, for whatever Cas did to deserve this, if that's what it would take. But nobody is answering prayers anymore. That's just the way it is.

Dean arrives at the barn a little past 7 in the evening, giving him roughly an hour before sundown. He sets up right beside Castiel's grave as always. He lays one hand down on the soil beneath him, wishing he could feel his angel through six feet of it. He pulls his phone from his pocket and stares at it for a long time. 

By the time Dean actually unlocks his phone, his shadow is stretched far out behind him and the crickets, who already chirp all day, are chirping even louder now and more frequently as the daylight fades. Dean dials Cas for a video call.

Cas picks up, and Dean's heart flutters when he sees those eyes again.

"Hey, angel," Dean whispers. "Thought I'd treat you to something nice today."

Castiel's smile is soft and sad. "This is the day we met."

"Yeah." _Our anniversary, because we got robbed of a real one._ Dean turns his phone around to give Cas a view of the September sun as it slowly sinks, and he hears a soft sigh of wistful bliss. It almost breaks him right then and there.

The light is orange at first, a rich golden orange like California poppies, and the wispy clouds in the sky are dashed with brightness at their edges. There's a slight breeze that ruffles Dean's hair, and maybe it's just being here, but it reminds him of the way that Cas used to absently pet him in passing. How that gentle touch had made his spine tingle, and the fond way Cas' hand would linger when he wasn't in a hurry. 

Dean scoops up a handful of sandy dirt and lets it fall slowly through his fingers. He does it again and it's soothing for some reason. There's grit under his nails by the time the sky is painted pink. His palm is coated with dust by the time the clouds darken to blue-gray and pink burns into crimson. The crickets keep on singing. Dean wipes his hand across his face and a smudge of mud is left behind.

Cas has been quiet for a while. Now the sunset's fire has smoldered down to soft gray ashes, and Dean hears him sigh again. 

"I'm so sorry, Dean," he whispers. "Thank you for this, it was beautiful. I'm so sorry that I can't be there with you. We should've been together today."

Dean shuts his eyes tight as Castiel's voice stutters, and he starts to pick up his phone, but then he hesitates. No, he doesn't want to, he doesn't want to look. He doesn't want to see his angel's face streaked with tears again, _not again._ It's been too many times already, more than he can count now, more than he ever thought he would. Every time it hurts more. Dean doesn't want to look. Until he hears that tiny, hopeless sniff, and he can't bear to be this selfish for another moment.

Cas looks so sad and worn, just as Dean knew he would. He puts his hand to the screen, and Dean can see it trembling.

"Dean, I—I…if I could _just_ touch you," Cas chokes out, "just _once_ more…" 

"I know, Cas," Dean says as steadily as he's able, "I know. It's not your fault, baby."

His voice doesn't falter. It's a pitifully little victory, but one that feels significant, because usually it's Cas doing the comforting. Watching Cas be the one to break down…that's a special kind of painful.

Cas tries to smile a little. "It's not yours either," he says, "don't you forget that."

  
  


*

  
  


It's not long before Dean's calls with Cas get even more spaced out. First it was once a day. Then, they started to skip days. Then, as if they could both sense exactly how fast their time was dwindling, there was an unspoken decision to change to once a week. That became once a month. 

Eventually Dean can't avoid wondering. How many of the days in between, when Dean can't check on him, is Cas overcome by the Mark, hurting himself? How many days is he suffering alone? But Dean can't talk to him, not until Cas calls. 

At some point, that had been another choice they never really discussed. Cas calls first, when he's lucid. They pretend there was no particular reason, but they both know that's bullshit. 

It started with the night that Dean called, and Cas answered, and something was off but Dean had ignored it. He didn't want to believe it.

"Hello, Dean," Cas had answered after picking up immediately. His tone was strange somehow. Like he wasn't saying it quite right. Dean knew it, he knew because he's heard that greeting a hundred times, but he ignored it. 

"Hey," he said. Okay, maybe he _tried_ to do something. "You feeling alright, Cas?" 

"Yes. I am." Cas said, and then he caught Dean off guard. "Dean, do you miss me? Don't you? Haven't you been lonely?" He sounded strained, rushed, like he was trying to open a pickle jar and also late for something. But Dean brushed it off. Those questions were too potent to be pushed aside.

"Of course I have," he whispered, tears already pricking his eyes. "God, Cas, I miss you every day. You know that. I don't think I'll ever stop."

"That's my boy," Cas said, and for some reason Dean had felt violated rather than reassured. There was something so _serpentine_ in the way Cas had said it. Maybe Dean would've said something then, if it hadn't been for the next thing Cas asked him.

"You'd do anything to have me back, wouldn't you, Dean? If there was a way, you would dig me up, wouldn't you?"

Dean's heart had leapt. His mind flooded with fantasies of saving his angel. 

"Yeah," he breathed, feeling weightless as his hopes had taken off far higher than they ever should.

"Dean. Come dig me up." 

Dean was struck speechless, only able to stutter a handful of syllables for a few seconds. His voice was trembling when he finally found it.

"Cas—Cas, did you—is there— _c-can I save you?!_ You said there was no way, you told me never to dig you up…?"

"There's a way. You have to dig me up," Cas insisted. "Please. I'm lonely, Dean. I need you. Why did you give up on me? Leave me down here alone? I need you to _get me out!"_

The last few words sounded almost like a snarl, and it made Dean jump. Still he had ignored it. He wanted to believe this reality. 

"I'm sorry, baby," Dean almost sobbed, his emotions seizing control. "I'm so sorry, I thought I didn't have a choice, I thought we'd tried everything—fuck, you're right, this–this was never a good idea! Cas, I love you and I—I'm on my way, okay? I'm on my way, I'm gonna come get you, okay?" 

Dean is still ashamed of how easily he had given in.

"Good boy," Cas purred. "I will see you soon then. Don't keep me waiting."

And Dean didn't. He'd booked it directly to his car without even packing anything for the 6 hour drive. He'd peeled out onto the road without a word to anyone, and went dangerously above the speed limit for hours in silence. When he was around 200 miles from Pontiac, he had texted Cas. 

  
  


im gonna be there soon

hang in there

like 2ish hours

**Cas:** What is it? What are you talking about? 

  
  


comin to get you. duh

just like u asked

  
  


**Cas:** Dean when did I say that? 

  
  


this morning dude

im gonna get u out of there ok

  
  


**Cas:** Dean. Stop your car.

  
  


Before Dean could even finish pulling over, his phone went off on the passenger seat. He snatched it up and answered.

"Cas?"

"Dean." Cas sounded frantic. "Please turn back." 

Dean could feel his heart sinking. "Why?" was all he asked.

"I don't have any memory of this morning," Cas replied. "That was not me."

"The Mark," Dean said numbly as his heart hit the ground, dragging with it all the foolish hope that had warmed his lonely soul for a short while.

"I'm afraid so," Cas said. "Dean I am sorry. You must be feeling so let down."

"I should've known." 

Dean hung up. He was empty. He hadn't felt anything in that moment. Though he remembers a single fleeting thought.

_Someone please just crash into me. Just hit me with a semi and fucking kill me._

_I am so tired._

_So, so tired._

He had immediately pulled a U-turn and started driving back to Kansas. This time, he was speeding on the off chance of outrunning the anguish he knew would catch up to him. 

After all that, only Cas called first, at the same time every month. And if he missed it, Dean was not to call him, because it might not be his Cas that answered. 

Nearly a year has passed now. Not a day goes by that Dean doesn't think about Castiel. It hasn't gotten better. Sam and Eileen try to help him, try to make his life less painful, and Dean appreciates them, but he knows he's not responding the way that they're hoping he will. 

Sam has started to watch Dean, keeping a worried eye on him constantly, checking in with him way too often, and Dean isn't naïve. He knows what it's about. Sam is afraid he's going to lose it, and if he's being honest, Dean doesn't exactly disagree with that assessment. His whole being feels like it's been smothered in guilt and loss and grief, and it's only getting harder to breathe. 

Eventually, Dean starts to grow distant from his family, staying in his room all day or escaping for long walks and drives, or just to sit in the woods alone. They keep trying, of course, but Dean keeps on downsliding. He wishes they'd just give up. How is he supposed to stop grieving someone who isn't at peace? Who will never be at peace? 

Cas sounds worse every time Dean hears from him. Occasionally he breaks the rules and sends Dean a tiny text, usually just one sappy emoji, and Dean's heart can't decide whether to swell or to break all over again.

Hunts feel meaningless now. Dean is failing to see the point in saving people when he couldn't even save the _one_ person he'd wanted to grow old and die with. So he just stops going. He quits his job. The family business isn't his goddamn problem anymore. Sam tries to talk him out of it, but Dean is so sick of it all, that even a hypnotist couldn't change his mind. 

"If there's anything you need…" Sam loves saying that right before he leaves Dean alone for a few days. "Even if you just need to talk—"

"I'll call you," Dean will answer, to placate him. If he's got the will, he'll even throw in a tired, forced smile that he's not even sure is fooling anyone. Smiles help people think you're telling them the truth. Smiles help people think you're more stable than you actually are. Smiles create an impression that you're going to get better.

Dean isn't going to get better. He can't. Day and night, he agonizes over Castiel, imprisoned forever in a living death. All alone in his grave. 

Dean sleeps a lot more than he used to. Being awake makes him tired. And sometimes, he dreams of a different world. Just mundane things, like waking up with Cas beside him. Or just going about a regular day, and passing by Cas. Dean's mind doesn't hesitate to remind him of what he's starving for. He wants to live in those dreams all day. So most days, he does just that. Sleeps off a day's worth of fatigue from doing absolutely nothing.

The phone is ringing. Might've been for longer than Dean's willing to admit. He's not even sure what time of day it is. Dean rolls over and frees one hand from beneath his blanket to accept the call. It's a little past 11 PM. So he's actually sleeping at an appropriate time today, who knew. He puts the call on speaker. 

"Dean."

Cas doesn't sound good. His voice is unsteady, and the sorrow is too potent to be hidden.

Dean snatches his phone and pulls it under the blanket with him, a little cave with only the light of his screen to illuminate its inhabitants. 

"Cas?" He answers, trying to cover up the relief and drowsiness that are still tugging at him. "What's up?"

"Dean, I…I don't—" he falters, takes a breath, tries again. "I'm afraid I'm—I'm nearing the end of my battery life. This is the last charge that I'm using right now."

Dean's mind fills with static as he takes in Cas' words. He tries to hide from the conclusion, tries to think about anything else, but it's no use. His days of being able to contact Cas have always been numbered, and now that number has gotten way too small to ignore. He didn't have a plan for when his plan ran out of steam. 

"No," is all Dean can manage to say. "No…no, no, no…"

What is he gonna live for when his line to Castiel is finally cut off? How is he supposed to cope?

"I'm sorry," Cas whispers, "we both knew this time would come. But I am so sorry."

Dean can't speak. Even now he knows that he's wasting precious minutes he will never get back, but he's paralyzed. He thought he had been prepared for this. He really fucking wasn't. Slowly he shakes his head, lower lip trembling between his teeth, eyes screwed shut. 

"Why didn't you warn me earlier?!" Dean suddenly cries. "So I could've—I could've…" he's not even sure. What _could_ he have done, anyway?

Cas sighs wistfully. "I couldn't bear to put that burden on you," he says, and Dean believes him. "I wanted you to get as much solace from this as you possibly could before I told you."

Dean can't find it in him to be angry. Cas sounds so beat-down, he can't bear the thought of adding onto that misery. He's never planned what he wanted to say or do in his final moments with Cas, and now, faced with the reality of it, his mind is blank, quaking with desperate urgency, but devoid of any way to calm it.

So he ends up saying nothing at all.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Real sadboi hours

Dean takes Cas out for a drive. It's the best way he can think of to spend their last few hours. He drives in silence for the first 4 or 5 before he calls up Cas. The true scope of this finality hasn't fully registered in Dean's mind yet; he's still riding on denial and avoidance, but he can feel it there. At the edges, hovering in the periphery of his awareness, Dean can feel the dread where it lies in waiting. Waiting until he's off guard, powerless and truly alone, before it comes plummeting down on him, breaking his will and his heart and everything he has left to believe in.

They talk during the drive. Oddly enough, about regular things, as though trying to stem the tide of grief they both know is coming. Dean fills Castiel in on current events, brings up memories they can both laugh at, tells stories and anecdotes of his life before they met. It almost feels like it could be a normal long drive. Except the seat beside Dean is empty. Only Castiel's voice keeps him company. And soon, he won't even have that.

Dean drives up to the foothills of the Rockies at the east end of Colorado, and he finds them a spot that's high, deserted, and beautiful. He turns off the car. The windows are rolled all the way down and he can smell the sweet, green scent of the wilderness. It's crisp outside, but the sun is burning bright, scattering silver sparks across the small lake below them. Dean gets out and settles down on a log near the edge. He turns on the video chat.

It's a few moments before Cas connects, and when he does, Dean has to turn the brightness way up to make him visible in the sunlight. 

Castiel's smile is so soft, tired eyes crinkling at the corners, and if you didn't know any better, you'd never think for a second that he's the host to an ancient evil bent on mass destruction. 

"Dean," he whispers, "my love. It's good to see you."

Dean smiles back and tries to keep it together. "You ain't so bad yourself," he says, but it still comes out with the heavy shade of sadness he was hoping to hide. Maybe there's no point in hiding it anymore. This is the last time he will ever do this, the last time he'll ever speak to Castiel, the love of his life. His angel. 

"This doesn't feel real," Dean admits. "I don't want it to be real, Cas, I…I got so used to–to still having you, and that made it all so much easier but now…" his voice falters. "Now I—I don't know what I'm supposed to do, I don't want this to…I don't want—I just don't want this!" 

Dean shakes his head, covering his eyes with one hand. They just got here and he's already crying. Great. 

"Oh, Dean," Cas says painfully, "I am sure you're tired of hearing me say that I'm sorry. And I wouldn't undo the choices I've had to make. But I will always regret that our time together was cut so short. For that I could never apologize enough." 

"It's okay, baby, none of this was your fault," Dean whispers through his unsteady breaths. "And I don't blame you. I just…really, really miss you. I'm just having a hard time coming to terms with this being our last day together, y'know?" He wipes his eyes again. "I love you, Cas. And I don't know how to let you go."

"Well let me know if you ever figure that one out," Cas says with a grin that's bittersweet, but mostly just bitter. Because if Dean ever does figure that out, he won't be able to let Cas know, not anymore. Maybe he could pray. But Cas won't be able to respond.

After a moment Cas speaks again. "Dean, can you…would you do something for me? Something that might sound a bit strange?"

"Yeah, of course. Anything."

Cas takes a breath. 

"Will you…just rest for a little while? I want to watch you sleep beside me one last time. If you would."

Dean nods, then turns away, because he wants to stop crying, to stop making this about himself, but he can't. The tears just keep on falling. He tries to steel himself and push the sorrow back, as he gets a blanket from the car and lays it down on the golden-tinged grass. It's stiff and dry, that grass, and Dean can still feel it poking at him through the blanket in a few spots. He props up his phone on a crumbly gray rock, and he finally meets Castiel's eyes again.

"I don't know if I can sleep, but I'll try," Dean says, but it's a lie. He's tired. He's always tired these days, and he's just gotten done driving for hours without a break. He could totally sleep.

"It's okay if you can't," he hears Cas say as his eyes flutter shut, and he stares into the great big nothing, and it's peaceful. Nothing hurts in this void. 

Dean dreams. He dreams that he's not alone.

"Dean. Dean, wake up. Please, we're running out of time!"

Dean slowly blinks his eyes open, then scrambles up and grabs his phone. 

"Cas, hey," he says, squinting at the screen. "Shit, sorry, I um…I guess I was more tired than I thought."

"It's okay," Cas says, "but Dean, we don't have much time left. I'm at 5% battery life."

Dean's heart jolts. He feels like he's going to panic. Suddenly he can't avoid this anymore, can't run from it. It's real now, whether he likes it or not. Castiel is almost gone. Dean is shaking his head, so unwilling to accept this, and he's sure he was thinking no, no, no until he realizes he's saying it. 

Cas is trying to calm him down. "Dean. Dean please…don't cry, love, it's okay, it's okay."

But nothing is okay. Dean can feel despair swallowing him up, flooding his lungs, drowning him. Still he forces himself to listen.

"There's so much I want to say to you," Cas is saying, "but there will never be enough time. I want you to know that I don't blame you. And I don't want you to blame yourself. The time that I've had with you has been the best part of my life, and I have lived such a long, long time. I am so sorry it has to end like this. But Dean, I will love you until my sanity breathes its last. I will think of you until I can no longer think. I only wish I could offer more."

Dean really thought that when the end was actually here, he'd have some miraculous clarity, that he'd be able to suddenly put together everything he wanted to say and deliver it without a single hitch. 

He was wrong. The end is here, and his mind is a mess. He still harbors some ridiculous notion that this could all be a dream, still prays that he'll wake up and find his angel lying peacefully beside him. It's not like stranger things haven't happened.

No such luck, though. He should know by now, he never gets the long end of the stick. That would just be too easy, wouldn't it? So he goes with the reply that makes the most sense.

"Thank you, Castiel," Dean chokes out. "For everything. Everything you've done for me, for my family. Thank you for staying with me all this time, and for all the…the joy you've given me, nothing can ever replace that. And I love you. So fucking help me I will always love you." He wipes his eyes with a long sigh. "Always, Cas."

"Always," Castiel echoes, and Dean thinks he might die just from how much suffering he's hearing Cas endure. Never mind his own suffering—he can handle that. But hearing, feeling, seeing his angel go through that anguish—it cuts him so deep he's not sure he'll ever recover.

"Don't you forget me, Cas," Dean pleads in a shaking voice. Logically he knows that the likelihood of Cas forgetting him is very low, but he's not running on logic right now. "Please just—just don't forget me, okay?"

Cas reaches out, touches his screen with a trembling hand, because that's the closest he can get to touching Dean. "I could never," he whispers. And he looks into Dean's eyes, just like he has so many times before, except this is the last time. 

The last time.

Dean closes his eyes for a second, one hand tangled anxiously in his hair, and bows his head because he's getting dizzy now.

When he looks up again, Dean is staring into the dark mirror of his phone screen, the red icon in the middle flashing to indicate the end of the call. 

Dean's face falls. The silence is deafening. He's saying no again, repeating it like a mantra, even as he watches the call screen flicker out, and the home page takes its place. 

"Cas?" Dean breathes as tears well up in his eyes. "Cas, no…no, I still—I still need you…there's so much I still have to say, I…I can't let you go yet…"

But he doesn't have a choice anymore. The call has ended. Cas is gone. 

Dean dials him again. Just to be sure, knowing full well he'll be disappointed. 

It goes straight to voicemail. 

Dean drops his head into his hands, letting his phone fall to the dirt. 

It's done. It's over. 

Castiel is really, truly gone.

All the sorrow that's been hiding behind the ability to still contact Cas—it's free now, free to torment him as it wishes. 

Dean starts to hyperventilate. He's losing it. 

Shaking, he wraps himself in the blanket, staggers blindly to his car, and falls into the back seat, curling up on one side. And he cries. He cries so hard it hurts. He cries until he's sure he couldn't possibly cry any more, and then he proves himself wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter will b worse


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind👏🏾the👏🏾tags👏🏾

If Dean had to describe the next few days, he would probably come up short. They're a haze of numbness and grief that melts together into one long, dark, gray stretch of time. He only eats because Sam reminds him to, only sleeps when he's so exhausted he could fall asleep on his feet. Sam still tries to get through to Dean, but it just doesn't register with him anymore. He spends entire days locked in his room, drinking, crying, erratically switching between fitful sleep and staring blankly at the ceiling. He keeps checking his phone, as if one day he'll see a message from Cas again, and of course, he never does. But Dean still prays to Castiel. Every night. It gets him through the rest of autumn, and that's not bad, everything considered. Once winter sets in though, Dean gets worse every day. 

He's lonely. Everything is cold and bleak and dull and Dean is so fucking lonely. Nothing makes him happy anymore. Hell, nothing even  _ interests  _ him anymore. His car gets muddy and damaged but he doesn't care to fix it. He doesn't make coffee in the morning. He doesn't leave the Bunker, leading to the deterioration of his natural sense of time. He's sure his sanity is draining away. He's not sure he'll miss it.

It's an icy day when Dean leaves. Snow all over the Midwest, several feet of it in some places. He doesn't bring anything with him, doesn't tell anyone where he's going because nobody wants to see him anyway. 

That last bit would've worked too, if not for Eileen busting him on his way to the garage. 

She almost passes by, but then she makes a sudden decision to stop him. 

"Dean? Where are you going?"

"Out," Dean mutters.

She looks at him like she can see straight through his bullshit. Which shouldn't be a surprise, since she's dating his brother after all. "Are you alright?" She asks.

Dean thinks about the question. Really thinks about it for a moment. 

Then he smiles softly, because today, maybe he does feel alright. 

"Yeah, I'm okay. Just need to get outside for a while, y'know?"

Eileen actually looks a little relieved. Poor thing. "That's good," she says. "I hope it helps."

"Tell Sam I said good night," Dean says, and his own voice sounds farther away than it should. 

Eileen nods, pats him on the shoulder, and then she's gone.

Then Dean is driving. Driving for so long. But he really does feel okay. For the first time in months, he has a sort of clarity in his mind.

Dean drives east, to Illinois, to Pontiac. To the place that calls to him, pulling him home. To the field, the barn.

The grave.

Baby stalls a couple of times on the way. She's always had a bit of a tough go in harsh winters. Or maybe she just doesn't wanna take Dean where he's going. There's a small child within him somewhere that still believes, just a little bit, that the car is alive. He knows it's silly. But he's never been good at letting things go.

"It's alright, sweetheart," he murmurs, patting the dashboard as he drives carefully down an icy road. "Sammy's gonna take good care of you."

It takes a minute for Dean to wonder why he said that. Why it just felt like the right thing to say. But he can't really put his finger on it, so he turns on some quiet music and cruises. He lets his mind go blank.

The metallic creak of the car door cuts through the frosty silence, followed by a soft crunch as Dean's boots hit the snow-covered ground. After he shuts the door, he's plunged into the familiar diffused hush that only snow can create. Not a single sound reaches him, save for that of his own footsteps, and the occasional rustle of snow sliding off of heavy-laden tree branches. It sounds a little like angel wings.

Dean doesn't need to see the ground to know where the grave is. There's no marker, but the location has been branded into his heart and mind like Castiel's handprint to his skin.

Dean kneels in the snow. The melting ice sinking into his clothes should feel uncomfortable. But Dean doesn't really notice it. 

He didn't layer, so it's not long before the cold seeps into his body. His breath floats away in tiny clouds.

He lies down. It feels okay.

He shakes. A lot. But that's okay too.

Tears welling up in his eyes, Dean prays to Castiel, the angel he never deserved. He's not even sure if Cas is still Cas anymore, but he has to try. 

_ Castiel, I love you,  _ he prays.

_ I'm sorry for this. So sorry. _

_ It all just got to be too much. _

_ Please forgive me, angel. _

Dean gets drowsy after some time, all his strong will and stubborn energy sinking into the dirt. He takes off his flannel, and he's not really sure why. He thinks he can see Cas, standing nearby. The bottom of a tan trench coat, black slacks, shoes too fancy for the rebel who wore them. He knows it's a hallucination, but just this once, he suspends disbelief.

Dean smiles. He feels okay. Better than he's felt in months. Like everything is going to be alright after all.

He's very cold. But that's fine. He can't feel his fingers or toes now, but that's fine too, because he doesn't need them anymore. He'll get along okay without them. His body is shutting down, leaving him suspended in this half-existence, waiting for the end.

Dean's entire being becomes one with the snow. 

Miles and miles of it. Drifting, glittering icy flakes, cascading down endlessly from the white sky, no destination, no mission, just landing where they land and staying there.

He lets his heavy eyelids fall. He's so tired. It's about time he got to sleep.

In the frozen hush, Dean can hear the gentle fluttering of feathers, and maybe the song of some far-off bird. It sounds so beautiful. Dean is outside himself, calmly watching his lips and fingernails turn blue, as the snow gently covering him gradually stops melting upon contact.

Somewhere out there, perhaps not too far away anymore, past all the bitter cold and shivering and despair, Dean can see peace. Serenity.

It looks like the ocean, like sand and sunlight and blue eyes and dark wings. All he's ever wanted. Right above his angel, he lets the world go, lets it drop from his shoulders. He knows he is forgiven.

Dean has waited far too long for this.

All it cost him was his breath. And as he feels it leave him, shallower with every moment, he waits.

He waits.

He waits to hear the sound of feathers again.

It sounds like freedom.

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do NOT kill urself or else I will find u in hell and step on your brightest, cleanest pair of shoes

**Author's Note:**

> [my dumb ass is on tumblr.](http://kweenratmother.tumblr.com/)


End file.
